In this brand-new summer read by the USA Today bestselling author of The House on Mermaid Point , three women join forces to bring a historic seaside hotel back to life…   There’s nothing that a fresh coat of paint and a few glasses of wine can’t fix…   After losing their life savings in a Ponzi scheme, Maddie, Avery, and Nikki have banded together to make the most of what they have left, using their determination, ingenuity, guts, and a large dose of elbow grease. It’s Maddie’s daughter Kyra who stumbles across a once glorious beachfront hotel that has fallen into disrepair. The opportunity to renovate this seaside jewel is too good to pass up—especially when they come up with the idea of shooting their own independent television show about the restoration. What could possibly go wrong?   Everything. With the cameras rolling, Maddie’s second-chance romance with her all-too-famous new boyfriend gets complicated, Avery struggles with grief over the loss of her mother, and Nikki’s reluctance to commit to the man who loves her could leave her to face the biggest challenge of her life. Even the hotel seems to be against them, when their renovation uncovers a decades-old unsolved murder which just might bring their lives tumbling down all over again… Praise for the novels of Wendy Wax   "[Wax] writes with breezy wit and keen insight.”— The Atlanta Journal-Constitution   “[A] sparkling, deeply satisfying tale.”—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author   “Wax offers her trademark form of fiction, the beach read with substance.”— Booklist   “If you’re a sucker for plucky women who rise to the occasion, this is for you.”— USA Today   “Wax really knows how to make a cast of characters come alive.”— RT Book Reviews Wendy Wax , a former broadcaster, is the author of twelve novels, including A Week at the Lake , While We Were Watching Downton Abbey , The House on Mermaid Point , Ocean Beach , and Ten Beach Road . ***This excerpt is from an advance uncorrected proof*** Copyright © 2016 Wendy Wax One Madeline Singer was fairly certain that the number of former suburban housewives who went on to have relationships with rock stars was too small to be statistically measurable. Which might be why she felt like Cinderella that May evening as William Hightower handed her out of his boat and onto the dock at the Lorelei Restaurant and Cabana Bar. If, that was, Cinderella had to color her hair, suck in her stomach, and wore a size too large to make America’s Next Top Model. Perched on the edge of U.S. 1, the multitiered Islamorada landmark served good, basic food, poured potent drinks, and drew a mostly laid-back crowd for its nightly sunset celebrations. Tables surrounded a thatched hut of a stage and spilled out onto a half-moon of beach where you could eat with your bare feet buried in the sand and your eyes pinned to a truly spectacular sunset that played out over the Florida Bay. Remnants of sunlight glinted off the black hair lightly threaded with gray that brushed William’s shoulders and cast his sharply angled face into shadow. “Should be interesting to see what kind of reaction we get to the new song,” he said as he retrieved his guitar case from the boat and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Everybody on Mermaid Point loved it,” she reminded him. “You got a standing ovation.” “Yeah, well, let’s not forget Mermaid Point is surrounded by water. The residents are a captive audience.” Maddie laughed but did not concede the point. She may not be a musician, but she knew a great song when she heard one. Will had written “Free Fall” in September not long after she and the rest of the Do Over crew had finished turning William Hightower’s private island into what was supposed to have been a high-end bed-and-breakfast but which he’d turned into a sober living facility. It was the first song he’d written after more than a decade unable to make music at all. The first he’d ever written without the benefit of drugs or alcohol. “And not that I don’t appreciate it,” he added. “But I don’t think you’re completely objective.” “True,” she said. “But I was a William Hightower fan way before I ever met you.” That had been back when he was building a name as a southern rocker, and Wasted Indian had been climbing to the top of the charts. “So let’s not go questioning my musical taste.” His dark eyes creased with amusement. The spider’s web of lines at their corners attested to all he’d been through. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, then headed for the stage. Maddie leaned against a vacant post not far from the bar that afforded an unobstructed view over the already packed tables that fanned out from the stage. A waitress handed her a glass of Pinot Noir, which she accepted gladly. She sipped it as Will and the musicians he’d cobbled together set up. Her eyes scanned the stage, the crowd, and the sun that hung in midair poised for its swan dive into the bay. She had only one mor